


Stronger

by WriteDreamLie



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 4x15 got me hoping again, Also implied Jervis/Jonathan if ya squint, Canonical Character Death, Getting in on the "What Will Ed Hallucinate?" Trend, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lemme know if there's a ship name for that cause I'm down, M/M, Not gonna break my sons' hearts now, Nygmobblepot, Plus one more for the angst, They're all hallucinations if that helps, happy ending though I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 03:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14180019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteDreamLie/pseuds/WriteDreamLie
Summary: The Scarecrow crashes Ed and Os's otherwise perfect dinner, and makes both men face what scares them most.Not really a 4x17 prediction so much as a, "Gosh, this would be kinda nifty, only the Gotham writers aren't going to give us this, so I'm going to write it myself dammit."I'd like to stress the happy ending despite the Major Character Death warning. I just want my boys to be happy.





	Stronger

It was the dinner they’d always planned to have, elegant and bright. The room was lit with candles, the table set with the finest dishware in the mansion—minus anything that had ever been touched by Sofia Falcone, of course. For once, Edward had not bothered to stop that tantrum before it began, figuring Oswald well deserved to express his outrage at everything that had happened over the past few weeks.

With that—and the long cleanup—behind them, the two could now sit peacefully at the same table they’d shared a lifetime ago, eating a delicious meal and simply enjoying each other’s company.

Edward was halfway through a joke, Oswald halfway through a mouthful of food, when the door to the mansion slammed open.

Ed grabbed for the gun attached to the bottom of the table—a trick he’d stolen from Lee—and was on his feet before the first masked face came around the corner.

Actually, it was only one masked face. It looked comically like a scarecrow.

“Who are you?” Demanded Oswald, rising to stand next to Edward. Ed kept his gun trained on the intruder, though the sounds of shuffling footsteps in the hallway implied he wasn’t alone.

“Hello, Oswald,” said the scarecrow, barely glancing at Ed or the gun. “I’ve come on behalf of a friend. He’s missed you so.”

Ed glanced down at Oswald, whose look of confusion burst into one of realization as three or four prior Arkham inmates stumbled into the room, still clad in their stripes.

“Jerome,” Oswald gasped. “Where is he?”

The scarecrow’s tattered head tilted slightly. “On an errand. He’ll join us in a bit. In the meantime, I’m to make sure you’re… presentable.”

Oswald’s face somehow went another shade paler. And the inmates, Ed decided were getting entirely too close.

He shot twice at the feet of the nearest of them, a man with more hair than face above his tattered uniform. The inmate looked down at the holes in the hardwood, stared for several seconds, then fell to his knees, pushing his face to the ground as if he could see through the bullet holes to another room.

The scarecrow sighed. “Not the brightest of the bunch, I’ll admit. But they get the job done.”

“What job?” Ed demanded.

An inmate appeared at his side and tugged the gun out of his hands before he could blink. She was small and mousy, her hair long and tangled, and she disappeared behind the scarecrow as quickly as she’d appeared.

“It’ll be easier if you don’t struggle, Ozzie.” The scarecrow pulled a bag off his shoulder. A frilled collar peeked out from the open zipper. “He just wants to have a little fun. You left so rudely without him.”

Oswald took a stumbling step backwards, his eyes fixed on the bag.

“That’s enough,” Ed said, stepping in front of Oswald. The scarecrow’s eyes finally seemed to focus on him, and he immediately regretted calling attention to himself.

“Ed, no—”

“And you,” said the scarecrow with another tilt of his masked face. “You’re the one who broke him out. Jerome had less specific instructions for what to do about you. So.”

One gloved hand flew towards Ed’s face, and he stepped back to avoid the attack. But instead of the punch he’d been expecting, Ed received a lungful of gas that surrounded his face, coating his tongue and throat as he took a surprised breath.

He had the wherewithal to push Oswald out of the way of the dark brown cloud as he was rubbing his stinging eyes.

When he opened them again, he was alone in the room.

No. Somewhere behind him, someone, or something, was taking long, phlegmy breaths. The sound made Edward want to cough, but he knew if he did, he’d be noticed. He’d do anything not to be noticed. To disappear into the woodwork of the floor, melt into the shadows, become invisible as the air.

He had to get out of here.

His room. His room was safe. He could disappear there.

If only the thing behind him would go away. He stood still for several moments, but the thing didn’t move. Ed took a few careful steps forward, towards the door of the room, towards safety. He took special care to step lightly, and only where he knew the floorboards wouldn’t creak.

At least, he thought he had. But his feet betrayed him, causing one short sound as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room, and before he could take another breath, the thing was upon him.

_“You useless waste of space, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”_

“Nothing, I wasn’t— I’m sorry— I don’t—”

_“Listen to you, think you’re so smart, can’t even talk right, useless piece of—”_

Ed’s world exploded into pain as the monster bore down on him with words and swipes of its long claws, knocking him to the ground. He glanced up to see the massive shadow, still breathing terrible unhealthy breaths that smelled of smoke, into eyes that burned like fire.

_“Don’t you look at me, your face makes me sick!”_

“I’m sorry, I—”

_“Shut up!”_

Pain across his back, into his stomach, on his face where he couldn’t block the blows. He curled into himself as if that would help, as if it wouldn’t make him look even more pathetic, but what else could he do?

“Ed?”

Ed peaked out from between his hands to see Oswald standing in the doorway. He was wearing one of Ed’s sweaters. It was too big on him. It made him look even smaller. More fragile.

“Oswald, you have to go, right now, please, he’ll find you.”

_“Who the hell is this? Did I say you could bring people into my house?”_

“I didn’t, please, leave him alone!”

To Ed’s horror, Oswald stepped further into the room, staring down the monster defiantly. The shadowy hulking form of his attacker immediately turned his attention to Oswald, its massive arms reaching out as if to strangle him.

“I said leave him alone!” Ed tried to rise to his feet, only to be knocked back to the ground by the force of the creature’s stare.

_“Shut up, mind your fucking betters.”_

The creature turned back to Oswald and resumed its assault, surrounding Oswald with burning black smoke, beating him down until he, too, was just a crumpled mess on the floor.

Edward watched all of this, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think.

“Oswald…”

* * *

 

“What did you do to him?” Oswald demanded as the small hoard of Arkham inmates dragged him into the next room. He caught a glimpse of Ed falling to the floor, hands on either side of his head, and heard the screaming begin as they slammed the door behind him.

“He sounds like he’s having a lovely time without us,” trilled the scarecrow.

Oswald tried to remember its real name. He’d heard Jerome talk about some of the more dangerous inmates he’d gotten in contact with while planning is great escape. If these were his companions, Oswald was glad he’d found an alternative way out.

“Johnathan Crane.” The name finally came back to him. “You’re looking less than well these days.”

“Really?” said Crane, setting the backpack on the ground. “That’s odd, because I’m feeling fantastic.”

“What did you do to Ed?”

Crane shrugged. “Just gave him a taste of my latest creation. It’s the strongest batch yet, digs even deeper into the psyche and mixes your worst fears with your worst memories. Haven’t come up with a name for it yet. Mr. Tetch will surely help with that though. He certainly has a way with words, don’t you think?”

Oswald’s stomach turned at the sound of that name. He thought back to the last time he’d heard it spoken outside of Arkham, the event he’d attended that almost ended in his own demise. Were the three working together now?

_Shit._

“And where, pray tell, are your friends this evening?”

Crane motioned towards his cronies, and the ones holding Oswald forced him down into one of the ornate chairs the room held. Then he kneeled and began unpacking the bag: out came the clown suit they’d somehow managed to smuggle out of Arkham, along with several bottles full of dark, smoky liquid, a handful of syringes, and several short lengths of rope.

The rope he handed off to the last of the Arkham inmates, the squirrely-looking one who’d taken Ed’s gun. Oswald could see it poking out of a makeshift pocket on the woman’s uniform. If he could just get free of these loonies, grab the gun, maybe he could take care of Crane before they realized what was happening…

He let this train of thought die out as soon as the woman began tying his arms to the chair so tightly that his hands immediately went numb. She then did the same to his ankles, and he winced as she tied his bad leg into an awkward position against the leg of the chair.

“Now,” Crane said as the inmates finished their job and wandered away, “Jerome would like you to know that he’s very hurt by your actions, but he’s willing to forgive you. He’s very generous like that.”

“And what does he want in return for his generous forgiveness?”

“You’re looking to take back your city, no?”

Oswald glared. As if he’d do anything else now that he was free again. “Why?”

“He wants to help. Or, rather, he wants your help in taking it for himself. You’d have your own place in his kingdom, of course, you and your jester.”

Another scream tore through the room as if Ed knew they were talking about him. That gave Oswald an idea.

“Riddler!” he yelled over Crane’s next spiel. “Riddler, I need you!”

Crane tilted his head curiously towards the other room. A moment later, Ed screamed again, and Oswald’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“I don’t think he can hear you over his own thoughts just now. You may want to try again later.”

Oswald pulled futilely at his bonds, wanting nothing more in that moment than to smack that stupid mask off of Crane’s face and shove it down his throat.

Crane watched him without moving a muscle. The Arkham inmates, poking curiously at Oswald’s things, looked back at him as he managed to scoot the chair half an inch forward, but otherwise were uninterested in his failed escape attempt.

“Are you quite finished?” Crane asked as Oswald deflated back into the chair.

Oswald closed his eyes, wishing he could be anything more than absolutely useless in this moment.

“Ed…”

* * *

 

_“Useless…”_

“I know…”

_“Waste of space…”_

“I’m sorry…”

Sobbing from the other side of the room. Pain all around him. Nothing he could do. Nothing he could say to make it stop. Nothing, nothing…

“Ed.”

He flinched at the sound of his name, even though it wasn’t followed by another blow.

“Edward. Get up.”

“I can’t, I…”

“Get up off the ground, Edward. He needs you.”

Ed lowered his hands just enough to glance at the pair of shoes that had appeared on the ground next to him. Shining black shoes. His shoes.

He took another slow, painful breath and followed the long, lanky form up until he met with another familiar pair of eyes.

His eyes.

“Riddler,” he whispered so quietly he could barely hear himself.

“Get up, Edward,” Riddler ordered again.

“I can’t, he’ll see me.”

“Of course he will! That’s the point!”

“No,” Ed gasped. “No, I can’t. You’re strong, but I’m weak, I’ve always been weak, and I can’t…”

“Edward, look at me.”

Ed hadn’t even realized he’d covered his face again. He lowered his hands entirely this time, turning his face to meet… well, his own gaze. Riddler kneeled in front of him, and Ed winced again as his shoes scraped across the floor. The sound didn’t seem to have alerted the creature; the sobbing on the other side of the room was punctuated with small cries that meant Oswald was still under attack.

The thought caused Edward’s chest to tighten uncomfortably, painfully, and he had to stop himself from curling back into a ball, willing himself to disappear.

“Edward, focus. You need to get up.”

“I can’t, I’m just—”

“Listen to me. I’m not a stronger version of you, Edward. I _am_ you. I’m what you’ve always wanted to be, what you’ve always been, even when you were trying to hide it. You want to be stronger? Wake the hell up and be yourself for once.”

Edward took a long, slow breath. Through the miasma of fear, he began to feel the logic of the statement seeping in.

“Be stronger than this, Edward. It’s what he’d want for you.”

Edward finally found the strength to look back towards the other figure curled up on the ground. _Oswald._

_“What the hell is this?”_

The shadowy creature appeared in front of him again, the smell of smoke almost overpowering, causing Ed’s lungs to constrict.

_“Awfully full of ourselves today, aren’t we? You get one little rat friend and you think you’re hot shit.”_

The words hurt as much as the blows, coming in quick succession, knocking the air from his lungs, bearing down on him with bone-crushing weight.

_“I’ll show you exactly what you’re worth.”_

His strength was gone. Riddler had disappeared. There was nothing left, nothing he could do, nothing—

On the other side of the room, Oswald began to scream.

“No.”

Edward forced his aching limbs to move. He pushed himself into a sitting position, flexing his hands to wake himself up. As he went to stand, the creature turned its burning gaze back on him.

This time, he didn’t fall back.

_“Get back on the ground where you belong, you worthless worm.”_

“No.” He pushed himself up and stood, absently straightening his glasses. “No. I am not worthless. I am not going to fall to a childhood boogeyman.” He glanced down at the unmoving form of Oswald and clenched his fists. “And I am not afraid of you.”

The creature let out a roar that made Ed’s ears pop as it charged towards him. He felt himself freeze up again, but he held his stance as the as massive figure bore down on him one more time.

He blinked. He was alone in the room again. A familiar chuckle echoed through his mind as he took what felt like his first breath of clean air in years.

And then, another familiar sound, more distant than it had been a moment ago: Oswald screaming.

Ed turned back to the table and pulled another gun out from its secured place. Then he reached into one of the upper cabinets and grabbed yet another. He made a mental note to put them in more useful places, as these had done him little good tonight.

At least until now.

He stepped quietly across the room, more sure of his steps now, and opened the door just enough to assess the situation on the other side.

* * *

 

Oswald heard screaming. He didn’t know it was his own. It could have been anyone’s. Could have been coming from any of the blood-soaked figures on the ground before him.

But no, it couldn’t, because they were dying, dead, bleeding out even as he watched.

Helpless.

“No,” he cried, reaching out to run a hand through long, curling white hair. His hand left a bloody streak, and he pulled away in horror.

He stumbled backwards, tripping over yet another body, this one clad in an ornate robe and matching night cap, the face already emaciated and sunken, a face he’d seen in his nightmares.

“No!” he turned away only to come face to face with another body, torn to pieces, mismatched eyes boring into his own in accusation, in disappointment.

“No, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I…”

_“Oswald.”_

The last of the bodies, the one that broke his heart more, differently, than any of the others, reached out to him with one shaking, bloody hand.

Oswald grabbed that hand with all the strength he had left and pulled himself closer to the bloodied body of Edward Nygma. His chest still rose and fell slowly, wetly, though it was covered in bullet holes.

“Edward, please, no, stay with me…”

“You…” Ed’s hand squeezed his own tightly.

“Yes, Ed, what, what can I do?”

“Nothing,” Ed sighed. “You can’t do anything. You’re… nothing.”

As the broken body finally stopped moving, Oswald watched the last of the life leave the bright green eyes he loved so much.

“Edward, no, please, don’t go!” He grabbed the body, his hands splayed across the bullet holes, still leaking blood, as if he could stop the life leaking out, but there were too many, too much…

And he was helpless to stop it.

* * *

 

Ed ignored the Arkham inmates, prodding mindlessly at Oswald’s trinkets, his entire focus settled on Oswald himself. He was tied to a chair, arm to arm and leg to leg, and his wrists were being rubbed raw as he struggled against the rope. He was screaming, tears pouring down his cheeks, and the sight made Ed equal parts distressed and absolutely enraged.

Crane sat on the floor in front of Oswald, scribbling away into a notebook as he watched Oswald struggle, like a doctor observing a patient. Beside him were several liquid-filled vials and handful of syringes, one of which had been used.

He briefly considered trying to use the scarecrow’s own mixture against him but decided that was too complicated.

Shooting him would be quicker anyway.

He reached a careful hand through the open door, careful not to make a sound as he took aim.

Something moved to his left. One of the inmates had peaked around an ornate lamp. Her hands were still entangled in the cord, but her eyes were focused squarely on Ed.

She opened her mouth to scream, and Ed turned the gun on her before she had the chance.

The room erupted into chaos as the other two inmates took up screaming instead, both rushing towards Ed as Crane hastily gathered up his things and bolted for the exit. Ed took aim again and brought one inmate down at the knees. The other barreled into him before he could get another shot off, but was unarmed, and merely beat at Ed with balled fists.

Ed pushed the man to the ground and stood, shooting him dead before he could try for another attack.

The final inmate Ed shot almost as an afterthought, like checking something off a grocery list, before rushing to Oswald’s side.

He was sobbing, mumbling incoherently, his eyes focused on some unseen horror Ed couldn’t even begin to guess at. His struggling made untying him more difficult, but Ed finally managed to get the tightly tied ropes free, and Oswald came crashing to the ground half on top of him.

“Ed,” he gasped in between sobs. “Ed, please.”

“Oswald, I’m here. It’s fine, you’re okay.”

The sobbing redoubled as Oswald grabbed desperately at Edward’s shirt. Ed took hold of Oswald’s shoulders and tried to make him meet his eyes.

“Oswald, wake up! It’s okay, they’re gone!”

Oswald didn’t seem to be able to hear him. Whatever the scarecrow had injected him with had probably been a more concentrated dose of whatever he’d sprayed at Ed. Oswald’s hands shook as they gripped his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he repeated.

“It’s fine, you’re okay,” Ed assured him, hoping some of his words would break through.

Oswald lowered his head onto Ed’s shoulder, and Ed could immediately feel the tears soak through.

“I’m so sorry, I love you, Ed I’m so sorry I can’t…”

“It’s fine, I love you too, you’re fine…”

His own words didn’t register until he’d already said them. And as Oswald’s sobs seemed to calm slightly, he repeated himself over and over until the shaking had stopped, their meaning becoming truer with every iteration.

Finally, Oswald’s grip on Ed’s shirt loosened. His breathing evened out. When Ed pulled him away, he saw that Oswald had fallen asleep.

At least, he hoped he was sleeping. A quick check of his pulse and breathing indicated that he was, at least relatively speaking, okay. Alive. Still alive.

That confirmed, Ed turned his thoughts to what they’d need to do next.

These bodies would need to be moved, but certainly not right now, not while the scarecrow could still be lurking around, not if Jerome was indeed on his way.

They needed to leave. The house wasn’t safe at the moment, and while it would gall Oswald to hear that Arkham inmates had commandeered his house, especially since he’d only so recently taken it back, he could deal with that revelation later.

For now, they had other safehouses to make use of.

Ed stood carefully, holding Oswald in his arms the whole way up. He managed to wiggle his second gun out of his pocket and pointed it ahead of them as he strode quickly out of the room and down the hall towards the back of the house.

The scarecrow seemed to have fled, if the open front door was any indication. There was no guarantee of that though, so Ed moved quickly but carefully out the back door and to the car Oswald kept behind the house for just such occasions.

He laid Oswald across the back seat. There was a moment were Os almost seemed to wake, and made a half-hearted grasp for Ed’s shirt again, but he dropped back into sleep without any protest.

Ed got them quickly and quietly to one of the safehouses, as far from the mansion as he could get them without leaving the city. He had to carry Oswald inside, and this time when he set Oswald down, there was no movement, just the same even breaths.

Ed couldn’t account for how desperately relieved he was just to see Oswald breathing peacefully on the battered sofa. He thought back to his own vision of Oswald beaten on the floor, then the very real vision of him tied to the chair, sobbing at unseen horrors.

Both made his chest constrict, first with distress, then with anger.

Not long ago, he’d been shocked at the idea that Oswald would give up his revenge for him.

Now he knew without a hint of uncertainty that he would be devoting his own revenge to Oswald, for Oswald, entirely.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, first off, a fic that's not based on a song??? SHOCKING.
> 
> Anyway, we could only hope for such a happy ending as this. I have very little faith in the Gotham writers on this subject, despite the heart-stopping gift that was 4x15. I'm glad I got this out before Thursday, though. I was straight up thinking about a fic where Ed got fear-gassed the moment I knew Crane was busting out with Jerome, so the 4x17 promo kind of put a deadline on me.
> 
> The episode itself might kill me. I can dream, anyway...
> 
> Please let me know what you think!!


End file.
